How awful is that hour when con, science stings.

I am one who finds within me a nobility that spurns the idle pratings of the great, and their mean boasts of what their fathers were, while they themselves are fools effeminate.

There are moments of life that we never forget, which brighten and brighten as time steals away.

How awful is that hour when con, science stings.

Green sods are all their monument; and yet it tells A nobler history than pillared piles, Or the eternal pyramids.

Night steals on; and the day takes its farewell, like the words of a departing friend, or the last tone of hallowed music in a minister's aisles, heard when it floats along the shade of elms, in the still place of graves.

The world is full of poetry. The air is living with its spirit; and the waves dance to the music of its melodies, and sparkle in its brightness.